


One Shiny Disk

by ThisBeautifulDrowning



Series: It started with a lightbulb [2]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, Rimming, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:10:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisBeautifulDrowning/pseuds/ThisBeautifulDrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack gets involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Shiny Disk

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [One Tiny Lightbulb](http://archiveofourown.org/works/767705).

“You know,“ Jack says conversationally, “this stuff could fetch a good price on the black market.”

 

“What are you babbling about now?” Owen looks up, attention still mostly on the computer readouts before him, but then his breath catches and his attention snaps to what Jack’s holding between his fingers, so fast that he nearly gives himself whiplash. “Oh, no, you didn’t. _Tell me_ you didn’t!”

 

It’s a laser disk, one of these tiny, shiny ones they use to store their oodles of circumstantial data – weather reports, police reports, rift activity, the odd graph or ten – and that keep littering up the Hub like particularly obnoxious coasters. 

 

Jack’s grin says, ‘I did.’

 

Owen lunges for the disk, but of course Jack’s faster. Jack’s probably anticipated this, banked on it, even, because his grin spans his face nearly from ear to ear as he dances out of reach and waves the disk like a trophy. “Prime material,” he taunts, barking a laugh when Owen makes a renewed, futile attempt. “Imagine this on YouTube – it’d cause a riot.”

 

Panic grips Owen. Jack can be just enough of a bastard to follow through on this threat, too, and Owen really has been mouthing off a lot to him lately. Rounding his work station, he holds his hands out, palms up. “Ianto’s going to have a cow, Harkness.”

 

Fuck cows – Ianto’s probably going to end up _killing_ them both, Jack for recording, Owen for being the catalyst. 

 

“Come and get it,” Jack taunts, still grinning that shit-eating grin of his, the one that speaks of unspeakable things. 

 

Owen times his second attempt better; Jack makes the mistake of dancing one step to the side too many, right when Owen, still in the tight grip of panic, kicks at him. He catches Jack squarely in the nuts, bursts out laughing at the wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression of surprise laced with _utter agony_ on Jack’s face as the other man crumbles to the floor and folds up. 

 

He’s always imagined himself going down in a blaze of glory, and this? This is probably it.

 

Owen scoops the disk up from where it’s fallen out of Jack’s twitching fingers, cradles it protectively against his chest. “Got it,” he announces, and then runs for his life.

 

*****

 

“There isn’t a place on earth where you can hide, Owen,” Jack’s voice booms through the corridor, dripping venom, anger, indignation, _murder_. “I’ll find you. I’ll find you and throttle your skinny neck. I’ll fold you in two and tie a _bow_ into your legs before I break your arms.”

 

Owen, squeezed in between two man-sized packing crates somewhere at the very back of Sublevel 2, closes his eyes. He has the disk, and that’s all that counts. It’s not going to end up on YouTube, or on someone’s hard drive, in _anyone’s_ personal porn collection – except maybe Jack’s, because the man would have to be pretty stupid indeed to have only one copy of the disk. 

 

But then, it’s Jack. Even if he _has_ twenty other copies, he’ll hunt Owen down and kill him on principle, Owen’s sure of that.

 

“You have to find me first, Harkness!” Owen yells, tempted to jump out of his hiding spot and wave the disk around like a triumph banner, high above his head. He doesn’t, though – he’s chosen this hiding spot well. There _is_ CCTC coverage, but thanks to the position of the crates, Owen’s pretty sure he’s hidden from sight – he can see the camera from where he’s crouched, turned the other way.

 

Staticky silence meets Owen’s challenging yell, too much and too soon. Jack doesn’t give up that easily. Cautiously peering around the corner of the one of the crates, Owen anticipates Jack to materialize at the end of the corridor like a pissed-off Jesus fresh from the cross, ready to do some nail-pounding of his own.

 

Nothing.

 

“Harkness? Don’t tell me you give up that easily?” A heartbeat. Two. Three. Ten. “Jack?”

 

With a creak and crunch of metal and dust and dirt, the grated floor beneath Owen’s sneakers gives way to yawning emptiness. Owen’s heart does a somersault as he plunges downward, arms windmilling and panic gripping him. He tries to grab onto the edge of the hole that suddenly opens up beneath him, but his arms aren’t quite long enough, and he’ll probably fall to his death, all just because Jack Harkness can’t keep his nose out of other peoples’ business and –

 

He lands in someone’s arms.

 

“Well, look at that,” Jack drawls, “it’s raining doctors.”

 

Too flabbergasted to react, Owen stares at the other man, his heart hammering against his ribs from fright. Jack’s holding him like a blushing bride about to be carried over the threshold, well above the ground, one arm beneath Owen’s knees, the other across his back, and he’s not making any moves that indicate he’ll let Owen down anytime soon.

 

“You -” Owen stares at the ‘ceiling’ – which is really the floor of Sublevel 2. Part of that ceiling is now hanging down from its two remaining screws. He notes the screwdriver sticking out of Jack’s shirt pocket, poking Owen in the arm, and that’s all it takes to replace fright with indignation. “You bloody wanker! What did you – you took the screws out of the grating while – you could have _killed_ me!”

 

“Did you really think you could beat me at hide and seek in my own base?” Jack’s grin is reaching epic proportions. “First rule when fighting an enemy… know the territory.”

 

“I’ll give you territory,” Owen snarls, indignant. He shoves at Jack, attempts to swing his legs out of the hold of Jack’s arm, _anything_ to get away. Of course, it’s like the mouse trying to fight off the lion. 

 

“Let go of me!”

 

Jack does. Owen lands on his butt with a pained yelp, the disk clattering to the floor. The sight of it lying there short-circuits any complaints he might have leveled at the other man as he lunges for the thing, but Jack’s fingers somehow end up wrapped around the back of Owen’s belt and he’s yanked back, finding no purchase on the – of course – slippery floor of Sublevel 3. 

 

“Ow! For fuck’s sake, Jack!”

 

The tone of Jack’s voice indicates that he isn’t sorry at all. “Gotcha. Does that mean I’m ‘it’ now?” 

 

The disk is _right there_ , thirty inches away from Owen’s fingertips. He kicks his feet backward, careless if he catches Jack in the groin again, and hits something solid, bone, Jack giving a pained grunt. Jack’s shoes squeak on the linoleum floor as he moves backward, dragging Owen with him by the belt – and what a funny picture they must make, Owen thinks arbitrarily as he attempts to dig his fingernails into the floor to have some, any purchase. 

 

He’s suddenly dropped entirely, thinks he might just have a chance if he moves quickly enough… but Jack’s knees come down on either side of Owen’s hips, and that’s worse. Being held by Jack Harkness is one thing, but to be trapped _under_ him adds a whole new level of horror to the scene.

 

Jack’s hand comes down between Owen’s shoulder blades before he has the chance to turn himself over. Jack’s other hand wraps around the back of Owen’s neck, just beneath his hairline, and Jack must be bending down over him, because the warm breath that drifts across Owen’s cheek comes from very, very close all of a sudden. 

 

“Be a good boy, Owen,” Jack _purrs_ , the smirk audible in his tone of voice, “and give up.”

 

“Never,” Owen snarls, but he doesn’t, can’t move, Jack’s hands pressing him down and – and the bastard’s sitting down on Owen’s _butt_! “Jack, you bloody -”

 

“Oh, come on, Owen.” Jack wiggles around on top of him and fuck, that _hurts_ , because Owen’s sharp hipbones are grating against the floor and his chest begins to feel constricted as Jack leans more weight on his back. “What are you gonna do? Spontaneously teleport yourself out from under me? I’m not moving unless hell freezes over.”

 

Owen swings an arm back, but all that does is hurt as his wrist impacts with Jack’s thigh. It’s not fair – it’s not Owen’s fault he isn’t built like a price boxer and got screwed over in the height department, too. Sure, he’s got oodles of sarcasm and biting wit, but sometimes there’s something to be said for brute strength – like now. Teeth grit, he admits to himself that he’s trapped, and what the fuck is Jack doing?

 

“Jack?” Owen asks, alarmed, just as Jack’s teeth close on the meaty part of his earlobe and worry gently. The very real threat of teeth so close to his throat combined with Jack’s warm breath sends a shiver down Owen’s spine, and of course, as close as they are, Jack feels it and chuckles, the sound vibrating oddly and loudly against Owen’s ear. 

 

However, the sound of a gun hammer being cocked is louder.

 

Jack freezes above Owen, hands tightening. Ever so slowly, he lets go – Owen heaves a breath of relief ( and shame, a little, because that vibration went straight to his cock and he’s growing hard against the cold floor, damn it ) – and sits up, allowing Owen to detach his face from the ground.

 

Ianto’s polished leather shoes are no more than a step away from his nose as he looks up. His gaze runs up a pair of black-clad legs to a waistcoat peeking out from a suit jacket, above which sits a red-striped tie. And above that…

 

“Uhm,” Jack manages, “hi?”

 

Fuck, but if the sight of Ianto Jones, all in black except for that bit of color at his throat, isn’t the hottest thing Owen’s seen in – well, forever. Even the non-amused, end-of-the-world expression on Ianto’s face is hot. 

 

The gun in Ianto’s hand, primed and trained on Jack, or Owen, or possibly both of them, isn’t.

 

“Hi,” Owen says weakly.

 

“Sir,” Ianto intones politely, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to get away from Doctor Harper. Failure to comply will result in being shot where it _hurts_ , instead of kills.”

 

*****

 

“Look, I can explain,” Jack says for the tenth time in as many minutes, just as they make it back into the main body of the Hub, and for the tenth time, Ianto ignores him. 

 

Instead, Ianto points his free hand at the door to Jack’s office. “In there, if you please, sir. You too, Doctor Harper.”

 

 _Doctor_ Harper? Ouch. Ianto must really be pissed to resort to that kind of name-calling, Owen thinks as he climbs the stairs up to Jack’s office, and thank god it’s late and the girls have gone home already. He isn’t sure he’d survive the knowledge of Gwen and Tosh seeing him like this, hands at the back of his neck, shirt and jeans streaked with dust, being marched around at gunpoint. 

 

Ianto closes the door as soon as they’re inside Jack’s office and points at the chairs. “Sit.”

 

They sit. Not even Jack, cock-sure and arrogant Jack, likes to mess with their resident archivist when Ianto’s in one of his _moods_. And what a mood it is, Owen thinks, nervously licking his lips: Ianto’s eyes are cold, utterly devoid of emotion, sitting too dark and too narrow in his handsome, pale face. Combined with the utterly black outfit –

 

‘Down, boy.’ Owen scoots around on the chair as his cock twitches. His cock _likes_ Ianto like that, professional and homicidal, gun out, but Owen doubts the archivist would take kindly to being informed that, hey, Owen’d like to rub himself off against Ianto’s thigh while sucking the taste of gun oil off of his fingers. 

 

Perhaps later. Ianto can’t keep them at gunpoint forever, unless he really plans on shooting them both.

 

Ianto leans against Jack’s desk, crosses his ankles, and sighs. “You were going to explain something to me, sir?”

 

Owen glances at their captain, who’s sitting on the very edge of his chair, hands still at the back of his neck. Jack’s expression radiates ‘wronged!’ on so many levels that it makes Owen want to laugh, or puke, or possibly both – but he feels a little bit sorry for Jack too, at least until Jack says with heartfelt sincerity, “It’s all Owen’s fault.”

 

“Oi!” Owen shouts, insulted. “ _You_ were the one who had me hiding in the first place! Don’t blame this on _me_ , Harkness!”

 

“If you hadn’t run, we wouldn’t be here.”

 

“If you hadn’t taunted me with that disk, I wouldn’t have run!”

 

“What, I was supposed to just give it to you?” Jack’s sounding incredulous, like it’s a concept not from this planet. “Who are you, and what have you done with Owen?”

 

“Oh, stuff it, Jack,” Owen snaps, tense. “If you hadn’t recorded that, that, that _thing_ down in the sublevels, then we -”

 

 

“And if you,” Jack counters hotly, “hadn’t made out down there in the first place, then I’d -”

 

Plaster explodes above and behind them. Owen cowers instinctively, arms wrapped around his head and neck, face pressed against his knees as he folds up on the chair. In the breathless silence that follows, he thinks he can hear Jack’s heart hammer one chair away, but maybe it’s just his own – the blood is rushing so loudly in his ears that he can’t tell.

 

When he looks up again, the expression on Ianto’s face has gone even colder. 

 

“What disk?” Ianto asks softly, in measured tones. “Owen?”

 

Owen does the only thing possible: wordlessly, he points an accusing finger at Jack. Ianto arches an eyebrow. Owen emphasizes the pointing, all but poking Jack in the shoulder. 

 

“Jack?” Ianto asks, still in that soft, measured, _dangerous_ tone. 

 

And Jack, in true Jack Harkness, death before dishonor, charm them with a smile style, boldly states, “I recorded your make-out session from last week, when you two were supposed to exchange one tiny lightbulb and ended up giving me a floorshow instead.” Then, lips pursed, he looks around, patting his pocket. “Where is the disk, anyway?”

 

*****

 

Sliding doors, and the cogwheel entrance to Torchwood Three’s base is a sliding door, don’t slam. Still, Owen imagines there to be a slam, loud and echoing, as the cogwheel slides shut in Ianto’s wake. It’d make a grand finish to a grand exit, Ianto all decked out in his black mac, flaring behind him like Jack’s coat usually does. 

 

“This is entirely your fault,” Owen mutters, turning from where he’s standing dejectedly at the foot of the stairs leading up to Jack’s office, to Jack himself, who’s looking no less dejected than Owen feels. “No sex for a month. A month!”

 

Oddly enough, Jack looks weirdly sympathetic. “That didn’t quite go as planned.”

 

Owen explodes. He socks Jack in the shoulder hard enough to hurt his hand, ignores the pain in favour of grabbing Jack by the bracers and getting right in his face, because. No sex. For a _month_. “Plan? You had a plan in that weird brain of yours? What was it – how to drive me completely bonkers, or what?”

 

Jack’s hands cup Owen’s face, who for a moment thinks that Jack’s going to do something weird, like smack their foreheads together or maybe bite Owen’s nose off, and he reacts accordingly, yanking back. Or, at least, he _tries_ to yank back: Jack’s fingers splay, calloused fingertips against the back of Owen’s neck, holding him in place with no effort at all, and Jack’s leaning down, covering Owen’s mouth with his own, and oh. 

 

It isn’t quite on par with a kiss between Owen and Ianto, because there might possibly be _feelings_ involved in a kiss between Owen and Ianto, but it’s close. Damn close, and Jack’s running the tip of his tongue along the seam of Owen’s lips, coaxing them open, tilting his head just so. Tilting _Owen’s_ head just so, and damn, that strength is a sudden, unexpected turn-on. 

 

It’s over before Owen comprehends that he’s grabbed the back of Jack’s shirt in both hands, pulling the other man in. Jack nips gently at his lips, flicking his tongue over the small hurt, and draws back, thumbs resting at the corners of Owen’s mouth. 

 

Owen says, “Nngguuh?”

 

Jack carefully extricates himself from Owen’s grip, stepping back and away, looking wistful and just the tiniest bit out of breath, like he hasn’t just kissed the breath right out of Owen’s lungs. “That was part of the plan,” he says, sounding sad. “Go home, Owen. It’s late.”

 

And he walks away before Owen can come up with anything in response.

 

*****

 

It _is_ late, but that doesn’t keep Owen from hammering his fists against the door to Ianto’s flat. “C’mon, let me in. I know you’re home, Ianto!”

 

The door behind Owen opens. He turns around to behold the spectacular sight of Ms. Fitzgerald, Ianto’s floor neighbor, resplendent in flower-patterned dressing gown, her remaining fifty hairs straggling out from under a garish night hat. The woman must be at least 150 years old, but she has a tongue as sharp and a razor and eyes that see everything, wicked behind small reading glasses. “Young man, do you have any idea what time it is to be causing such a racket?”

 

Owen leans against Ianto’s door. “Sorry, ma’am, but my gay boyfriend and I had a falling out of sorts because a mutual, omnisexual friend of ours made a video of one of our make-out sessions, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to kick his door in now. My boyfriend’s, not that other friend’s.”

 

Ms. Fitzgerald blinks at Owen. She blinks at the door to Ianto’s flat, opens her mouth to say something, shakes her head, and shuffles back into her flat, shutting her door with an accusingly soft click of the lock and the snap of three deadbolts. 

 

Owen sticks his tongue out at her peephole, just because he _knows_ she’s peering through it. Then he nearly falls over when the door he’s leaning against suddenly gives way as it opens. Ianto catches him before he falls, though, dragging him inside unceremoniously. “Thank you for outing me to the whole street. Or possibly, all of Cardiff. That woman organizes 16 different afternoon tea circles.”

 

“Aw, like you’d give a toss.” It’s nice and warm inside Ianto’s flat, and the soft lights shining pleasantly on tasteful, old furniture are immediately relaxing. Or, possibly, it’s the sight of Ianto, dressed in beige cargo pants and V-necked t-shirt that puts Owen at ease, because no matter what he does and how hard they fight, Ianto hasn’t denied Owen the sanctuary of his home. Yet. “Can I kiss you, or are you going to tear my tongue out in some kind of secret ninja move if I do?”

 

Ianto rolls his eyes, arms folded. “This _is_ your entire fault, you realize?”

 

“How so?” Owen unfolds Ianto’s fingers from where they are clenched into his biceps, one after the other. 

 

“If you hadn’t practically tackled me to the floor and ripped my clothes off, Jack wouldn’t have had anything to record.”

 

It takes a bit more effort to get Ianto’s arms to unfold, but Owen diligently works himself into them, dragging Ianto’s hands down to rest on his hips before he wraps his own arms around Ianto’s shoulders and neck, pulling them together. “You _liked_ that.”

 

“Right up to the part where I realized that my boss – _our_ boss – had just gotten a front row seat in our show, yeah.” 

 

Admittedly, that wasn’t as much as a turn-on as one might believe. Owen remembers feeling as if he’d been doused with a pot of cold water, right when the afterglow was at its best, and once the required snuggle and kiss had been dealt with, they’d quickly and silently claimed their clothes. He hadn’t been able to look Jack in the face for _days_ , although in retrospect that was pretty stupid, because they had nothing to be ashamed of.

 

“Yeah, about Jack…” Owen clears his throat. “Hekindofkissedmeafteryouwenthome.”

 

“What?” Ianto’s arms tighten around Owen.

 

“I didn’t mean for it to – I mean, I’m innocent! Really!” With a disgusted sigh, Owen tries again. “I didn’t initiate it, but -”

 

“But?” 

 

Ianto’s voice is sharp. He doesn’t look very amused when Owen glances up, eyes narrowed, lips a thin line, and their stormy hooking up, a few months after Jack left and not enough months before he came back, isn’t _that_ far in the past for either of them to feel completely secure in their relationship… _especially_ not now, when Jack’s back and Owen spends at last half an hour each day thinking about Jack and Ianto kissing, right in front of everyone. 

 

“But I think he’s lonely,” he finishes with another sigh, “and he’s probably still hurting that he didn’t come back to a made bed with you in it, holding your arms open in welcome.”

 

“If he thought that’s how I’d welcome him, then he clearly needs a shrink,” Ianto states grumpily, but his eyes are still narrowed and his mouth is still pinched. “I’m not that easy.”

 

( That’s another one of those stumble-stones in the Great Relationship of Owen and Ianto, the faint, lingering thought, on Owen’s part, that Ianto’s with Owen just to spite Jack. If there’s anything Owen wants to stop from casting shadows over them, it’s that. )

 

“I know you’re not.” Owen drags Ianto’s head down, kissing him sloppily. 

 

( Then again, when Jack came back, Ianto didn’t dump Owen, and although there’s been rumours of a date Jack asked Ianto out on, Ianto adamantly swears he said yes just to get Jack out of his hair that night. )

 

There’s still tension in Ianto’s body when they kiss, but when is there ever not? Owen runs his hands over Ianto’s back, then under his shirt, stroking lightly at the small of his back just for the shiver he knows that will get him. 

 

( And, frankly, it’s not like he’s ever going to openly tell Ianto all that. Every relationship needs a few secrets and Owen’s just too happy to keep those particular doubts to himself. Just like the ‘L’ word is never mentioned, but that’s more because it’s Torchwood, and Torchwood seems to make a habit of killing things that start with ‘L’. Like Lisa. Like love. )

 

“So,” Owen mumbles when they come up for air and his hands are gripping Ianto’s hips just above the waistband of his pants, “that no sex for a month thing?”

 

“Shouldn’t we talk about the Jack thing?”

 

“We can talk about the Jack thing after we did the sex thing.”

 

Ianto chuckles, drags his fingers through Owen’s hair. “Only if you tell me what exactly Jack said to you when you two did your… kissing thing.”

 

Owen nods and thinks, ‘Anything.’

 

*****

 

And of course, a month or so later, when Tosh has taken Tommy home and the Hub lies quiet, peaceful in the glow of the computer stations, Owen catches Ianto coming down the stairs to Jack’s office, mouth kiss-swollen and hair mussed, and the guilt in Ianto’s eyes drives Owen straight into the next pub and a white-hot spike of pain right into his soul.

 

The barkeeper seems to recognize the primal pain Owen feels he deserves to radiate, because when two shots become five and Owen keeps asking for more, the good man just hands him the entire bottle and a napkin and threatens to kick Owen out on his arse if he pukes on the counter.

 

For the next hour or so, Owen’s happily drowning himself in cheap vodka, drinking one shot after the other as quickly as his clenching stomach will allow. If he’s lucky, he’ll die of alcohol poisoning way before his common sense kicks in, but – a squint at the bottle’s label – at 30%, alcohol poisoning isn’t likely to happen unless he steps up the pace.

 

“Look, mate,” the barkeeper says carefully when Owen orders the second bottle. “D’you want me to call someone?”

 

“Who, like my cheating, lying, good for nothing bastard of a boyfriend who cheated on me with the one person he said he wouldn’t?” Owen doesn’t give a toss if the Cardiffian in front of him can deal with that piece of information or not; he waves the empty bottle at the man, holding onto the edge of the counter with his other hand. “Get me another.”

 

If the barkeeper thinks anything about Owen’s drunkenly snarled admission, he keeps it to himself. “You sure?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“No,” says someone behind Owen. 

 

Owen swivels around on his stool at the sound of the second voice, letting the empty bottle clatter onto the bar, aware that the barkeeper is making a hasty grab for it before it rolls off and shatters on the floor. He might as well have made a grab for Owen – all that swiveling around combined with an hour of steady drinking on an empty stomach, yeah, _bright_ idea - who teeters dangerously on his stool, now that he doesn’t have the edge of the counter to hold on to anymore. 

 

“You,” Owen snaps, and then falls helplessly forward into the waiting arms of Jack Harkness.

 

*****

 

An atomic bomb detonates somewhere nearby, or maybe it’s just the sound of his pitiful retching. Owen opens his eyes and stares at the contents of the toilet bowl he’s leaning over, supported by a strong pair of hands gripping him by the shoulders, and promptly hurls again, until all that comes up is bitter, acidic, and would do better staying down, where it belongs. 

 

Shakily, he wipes his mouth. The hands on his shoulders drag him away from the toilet and one briefly disappears to – renewed explosion of sound, this time on the scale of the Titanic slowly going under – flush the toilet’s contents out of sight. Owen whimpers, attempting to cover his ears with hands that tremble, and rolls onto his butt, back resting against a pair of legs behind him. 

 

“Feel better?” a booming voice inquires.

 

“Shut up,” Owen moans, clasping his hands over his ears. “Shut up. Go away and _die_.”

 

“Okay.” The legs move away, bereaving Owen of the only steady thing in the room except for the floor. He promptly falls backward, arms flailing, but the legs are back before he hits the unforgiving tiles. “Or, not.”

 

Upon closer inspection, the tiles are familiar. Owen glares at them until he recognizes the faint green pattern; they’re Ianto’s bathroom tiles, so that must mean…

 

“Ianto?”

 

The hands are back, taking him by the upper arms and dragging him to his feet, and yeah, that’s Ianto’s tiled bathroom wall right there. That’s the sink, with the stylish mirror and the bathroom cupboard that holds two toothbrushes, Ianto’s and his, and Owen grabs for the edges of the sink, feeling sick all over again. “Let go of me.”

 

In the mirror, Jack’s reflection lifts an eyebrow. “You sure that’s such a good idea? Last time I did, which was on the sidewalk outside the bar, by the way, you fell over.”

 

“Since when do you care?” Owen snarls, groping for the tap. God, his mouth tastes as though something crawled onto the back of his tongue and died there. “Isn’t that what you live for, Harkness? Pulling the rug out from under peoples’ feet and then watching them stumble to regain their footing?”

 

He finally gets the water going, gargles and spits. When he looks up again, Jack’s giving him one of those Jack looks, the ones that drove Owen up the wall even before Ianto was in the picture, and Jack _still_ hasn’t let go of him. 

 

Jack says, “In case you’re wondering, Ianto kissed me. Not the other way around,” and Owen shouts, “Fuck you, Jack! Twist the knife just a little _more_ , why don’t you?” and slips, losing his footing and nearly cracking his head against the edge of the sink. 

 

Jack catches him. Holding him by the upper arms again, he nearly lifts Owen entirely off his feet, dragging him away from the sink and against his chest, turning him around like a ragdoll, a child’s toy. That’s what they are to him, no? To the guy who can’t die – who came back in front of Owen’s eyes like a Jack-in-the-Box jumping out to scare you – they must seem like inconsequential pings on the radar of his life. 

 

Owen realizes he might possibly have said as much, mumbled it into the soft cotton of Jack’s shirt, because Jack murmurs, “No, you’re not,” and, “You all mean more to me than that, much more,” and he holds Owen close, one big hand at the back of Owen’s head. 

 

“Where’s Ianto?” Owen asks, needing to know that one last thing before he succumbs to the beckoning, alcohol-induced _coma_ he knows he’s going to fall victim to soon, maybe in the next minute or so. 

 

“Outside,” Jack says, stroking Owen’s hair. “Probably wearing tracks into the carpet with all his pacing and feeling like the biggest piece of shit on earth.”

 

“Good,” Owen murmurs, and passes out.

 

*****

 

Owen wakes with the world’s meanest bitch of a headache and immediately decides he wants to die. Tiny people with spears are tap-dancing in the middle of his skull, poking at the tender insides of his brain, and the thing that crawled into his mouth and died has attracted brothers, sisters and third-grade cousins, who’ve all joined in on the big party of making Owen the single most miserable person on earth. 

 

He doesn’t open his eyes until he’s marginally sure he’s lying on a flat, soft surface. Anything else would be _bad_ , because Owen knows what monster hangovers can do to his equilibrium; but fuck, he can’t remember having a headache this bad in years, literally. 

 

Flat. Flat is good. Flat is safe. Owen cracks his eyes open slowly, for fear that any light waiting to descend on him will make his eyeballs explode from their sockets, his body’s very unique retribution for drinking all that… vodka? Tequilla? 

 

The flat surface shifts, dipping to the left of him. Immediately, Owen screws his eyes shut as his stomach protests the motion, but it only lasts for two, three seconds before silence descends once more. Silence, and the soft, regular breaths of a person next to him. Carefully, Owen extends his arm to the side, until his hand meets soft cotton and a button and what might possibly be Ianto’s hip.

 

Owen’s hand settles. It’s definitely Ianto’s hip, because that hitch in breathing so close to his ear is definitely Ianto’s breath, warm and smelling of mint. Waiting for his stomach to calm down before he opens his eyes again, Owen blinks into the semi-darkness of the bedroom of Ianto’s flat. Then he begins to turn onto his side, which seems to take an eon because he has to pause every inch or so, to wait for things to settle down, for the spear people in his head to not kill him, for the taste in his mouth to recede to the back of his mind. 

 

The sight of Ianto, curled up at Owen’s side, sharing Owen’s pillow, is worth the torture, though. Momentarily forgetting that he’s really, really angry at the younger man, Owen just looks, because even in his sleep Ianto sometimes doesn’t truly relax, thanks to the legacy of too many nightmares they all suffer from. And, yeah: a tiny worry frown is carved between Ianto’s eyebrows now, too. 

 

Owen is leaning over to kiss that frown when he remembers what put him here in the first place. He halts, lips two inches from Ianto’s face, and frowns himself, pulling his hand away from Ianto’s hip. 

 

“He’s not going to bite, you know?”

 

Owen glances around. Apparently, his reactions are so sluggish that he even forgets to scream, or flinch, or possibly throw a pillow at the dark shape sitting on a comfortable armchair in the corner of the bedroom, an open book balanced on a knee. The half-open shades make Jack look as if he’s zebra-striped: darkness, light, darkness, light, and the light’s candy-cane-coloured from the streetlamps outside. 

 

Owen looks at Ianto again, then slowly, determinedly rolls out of bed. “I repeat: fuck you, Harkness.” He doesn’t care if he wakes Ianto, feeling more than just a little bitter about the turn of recent events. “Fuck. You.”

 

“Oh, come _on_ , Owen.” Jack closes the book, throws it onto the foot of the bed, and rubs both hands over his face. Owen, reading the book’s title upside down – ‘The Stone Monkey’ by some bloke named Jeffrey Deaver – nearly misses Jack’s quietly murmured, “Why can’t I have both of you?”

 

“Because polygamy is generally frowned upon in Western civilizations.” 

 

“Honestly, do you really _care_ about that?” Jack shrugs. “And when did you marry Ianto?”

 

Owen flaps a hand. “Semantics, Jack.” He sits on the edge of the bed, not quite sure yet if he’ll manage the way to the bathroom. He desperately needs to piss, and a bit of toothpaste on a toothbrush wouldn’t be amiss, either, and fucking hell, he’s so not up for a discussion of this kind, least of all with Jack Harkness. Forestalling Jack’s answer with another flap of his hand, Owen pushes himself to his feet. 

 

“Look, I’m tired, I feel like crap, something died in my mouth, and I got the feeling that come morning Ianto’s going to dump me.” Owen runs a hand through his hair. “I was right, you know?”

 

Jack’s staring at a spot above Owen’s shoulder, but his gaze flicks over to him at the question. “About what?”

 

“My -” Owen arranges and rearranges the thought in his mind. ‘My biggest fear…’ Admitting something like this to Harkness? Yeah, as if. Owen’s had enough trouble admitting it to himself. “I knew he was going to dump me the minute you turned back up. And I was right.”

 

Jack’s face is bathed in shadows, making it impossible for Owen to see his expression. When Jack doesn’t say anything in response, just sits quietly with his hands folded on his lap, Owen shuffles off in the direction of the bathroom.

 

He’s brushing his teeth when the door to the bathroom bangs open and gives him such a fright that he nearly swallows the entire mouthful of foamy toothpaste. “What the -”

 

Only, it comes out more like ‘Whahe’ with all the foam in his mouth, and the next thing Owen knows, Ianto’s wrapping his arms around him, pulling him close, pressing him against the sink, and burying his face against the curve of Owen’s shoulder. 

 

Oh please, Owen thinks. Please, no apologies. No teary-eyed explanations.

 

“You idiot,” Ianto mutters. 

 

Owen manages to dump the toothbrush and bend around far enough to spit out his mouthful of foam. “What?”

 

“Look, about Jack -” Ianto’s hands lock in the small of Owen’s back, pulling them even closer together, to the point where Owen thinks he won’t be able to breathe anymore, soon. “I didn’t plan for this to happen.”

 

“Right,” Owen manages, and it’s _hard_ to feel bitter with Ianto all but wrapped around him, but Owen feels _wronged_ , and it gives his voices that much more of a sting as he says, “So this is it, then? You’re dumping me now? Not even giving me a bit of time to sleep off that hangover before I get to deal with this?”

 

“There’s nothing to be dealt with.” Ianto raises his head, lifts his hand to wipe a bit of foam off of Owen’s chin. “There’s no dumping going to happen unless -” he stops, frowns. “Nope. There’s no dumping going to happen.”

 

“…don’t I get a say in this?”

 

“No. Because you’d think it to death.”

 

Owen blinks. “That’s usually _your_ specialty. Overthinking stuff.”

 

Looking as if he wants to debate that particular accusation, Ianto finally shrugs, and his hand’s still on Owen’s face, warm and firm and _known_ , making it hard for Owen to think clearly. “Do you have a problem with it?”

 

“You’re not talking about overthinking stuff now, are you?”

 

“No.”

 

It feels so much like being pressured into something Owen isn’t sure he wants. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it – Jack’s a damn good kisser, for one, and two, it’s hard _not_ to think about Jack every once in a while, once you’ve seen him in the communal showers at Torchwood ( or anywhere else, really ) – but he hasn’t thought about it _recently_ , and certainly not in conjunction with Ianto’s and his relationship. 

 

Ianto’s hand strokes down the side of his neck, fingertips lingering over Owen’s shoulder and smoothing down the length of his arm, and damn it, that’s not something Owen wants to lose. Not when he’s just settled into it, more or less, not counting the few bumps and rough spots on the road. 

 

“I must be stark raving mad,” he whispers, pressing his cheek against the side of Ianto’s head, “to even consider what you want from me. I come to you straight after Harkness snogged me and confess my sins, and you…”

 

“You ran away,” Ianto points out, “before I had the chance to confess anything.”

 

“Then how come it was Jack who found me?”

 

“Do you know how many pubs there are in Cardiff? It was faster with two people. If Gwen and Tosh had still been around, I’d have asked them, too. Besides, Jack offered to help.”

 

“He did?” Owen considers it. “That’s not making me feel half as mollified as it’s probably meant to be.”

 

“It isn’t.” Ianto’s hand loosely encircles his wrist, fingertips stroking the inside just above the heel of his thumb, before he takes Owen’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together, and if that’s supposed to _mean_ anything, then – yeah. Owen _gets_ it. “Owen?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“This can be a good thing. I think. I don’t know. I hope.” Ianto moves his hand, sensually sliding his fingers between Owen’s, and darn it, that’s distracting, but it’s kind of nice, too, so Owen doesn’t stop him. “It’s like… like _our_ thing, only with one more unknown factored in.”

 

Owen sighs dramatically. “Next you’ll be telling me that life’s a journey along many roads, or some such other esoteric crap.” He shudders when Ianto snorts dryly against his neck, warm breath and warmer lips sliding against his skin. “A good thing, hm? Sure about that?”

 

Ianto nods.

 

Owen swallows dryly, finally wrapping his arms around the younger man in turn, and dips his head forward until he finds an ear to whisper into, “Convince me.”

 

He can _feel_ Ianto’s smile against his neck. “You might want to get rid of the rabies, first.”

 

“Oh, har har, Mr. Jones.” Owen reaches for the tap. “Dig out some of that special aspirin for me, will you?”

 

Toothpaste foam is rinsed out hurriedly but thoroughly, the toothbrush rescued, and Owen debates whether or not he should hang onto this threadbare t-shirt of Ianto’s he’s somehow ended up in, before giving an internal shrug and taking it off for a quick wash. Aware of Ianto’s eyes on him the entire time, he watches Ianto’s reflection dig through the tiny medicine cabinet in the other corner of the bathroom, coming up with a small pill bottle. Owen swallows two with large gulps of tap water. “By the way.”

 

Ianto’s leaning against the wall next to the door, looking damnably _cute_ in his low-hanging pajama bottoms. “Yeah?”

 

Owen throws water in his face, reaching for a towel. He’s not ready to face this before he’s gotten at least one shot in. “You _are_ that easy.”

 

*****

 

It isn’t until he steps back into the bedroom that Owen begins to think that he might just have made the mistake of his life, because, dear god, unless a meteor strikes Ianto’s flat or the world burns down, he’s probably going to have _sex_ with Ianto _and_ Jack in the foreseeable future. 

 

Like, _now_. 

 

However, Jack’s nowhere to be seen. Owen lets Ianto tip him into bed, thankful that the pills are beginning to work their magic already. There’s still a bit of dull pressure behind his temples, as if the world’s removed a shade or two, but that’s probably for the best – he _isn’t_ sure he could do this while he’s thinking clearly, or thinking at all, and huh, maybe Ianto’s right and he’s good at thinking things to death, too.

 

This will either work, or it won’t… and if it doesn’t, well. ‘Not going to think about that now,’ Owen decides, stretching and grinning when Ianto kneels over him on the bed and attacks his belt and fly with quick, clever fingers. Before he knows it, he’s out of his jeans and briefs and the sheets are wonderfully cool against the length of his body. 

 

“Head getting better?” Ianto asks, stretching out above him, one arm wrapped around Owen’s middle.

 

“Yeah,” Owen murmurs. There’s a faint clinking sound, glass against glass, coming from the direction of the kitchen, along with the occasional footfall. So that’s where Jack went. “C’mere.”

 

They kiss, and it’s like slipping into a pair of well-worn, beloved shoes. It helps calm Owen down a bit, and he beats down viciously what the kiss doesn’t manage to soothe. He’s not _losing_ anyone. 

 

He’s adding. Or being added.

 

Ianto’s arms wrap around him once more, blunt fingernails scratching lightly up and down his back, long, strong fingers cupping Owen’s arse and squeezing. He rolls them over so Owen’s on top, insinuating his leg between Owen’s and pressing up, their hips clicking and locking. The lingering residue of Owen’s headache dissipates with the first rhythmic slide of his cock against Ianto’s, and if Owen were still thinking clearly, he could name and number the hormones and whatnot that the body releases during sex ( and death ) to make you feel better.

 

Coherent thought, however, is quickly becoming a thing of the past – fleeing entirely when the bed dips and Jack’s voice, unaccustomedly raw and tender, whispers, “Hey,” into Owen’s ear just as Jack’s body, broad and muscular and gloriously _warm_ , presses against his and Ianto’s sides. 

 

Owen manages to break the kiss long enough to whisper, “Hey,” back, but Ianto apparently plans to kiss him senseless and immediately reclaims his mouth. It’s just as well – Jack’s hand, warm and large, comes to rest above the curve of Owen’s arse, startling a grunt out of him when the number of hands on his body suddenly doesn’t add up with the number of bodies he’s accustomed to having in bed. 

 

Then Jack moves out of Owen’s peripheral line of sight, the bed shifting and dipping in a different way. Ianto cups Owen’s chin, breaking their kiss to nibble on the edge of Owen’s jaw, free hand slowly stroking up and down Ianto’s spine. Jack’s hand – no, _hands_ , there are two of them now - Jack’s hands settle on Owen’s hips. 

 

He’s lifted to his knees and – and _yeah_ , that strength _is_ a turn-on, but it’s also a little bit intimidating. 

 

“You two make such a gorgeous picture,” Jack murmurs, palms smoothing up the backs of Owen’s thighs. “So hot.”

 

Ianto’s fingers find Owen’s nipples just as Jack’s tongue finds the puckered ring of muscle lying in the cleft of Owen’s arse, turning Owen’s snappy retort – and unmistakable order to stop talking and start _doing_ – into a startled, deep groan. It’s slick and wet and oh _fuck,_ no matter how many times he’s on the receiving end of this, it’s never going to get old. Jack’s keeping him spread with his thumbs, fingers splayed out over the cheeks of Owen’s arse, licking around and into him slowly, then teasingly, then mercilessly. 

 

It’s almost scary, how good Jack is at this. Owen begins to melt from the inside when Jack’s mouth, teeth, _tongue_ wander lower, playing over the sensitive stretch of skin just behind his balls, licking and nibbling. Owen fists handfuls of the bed sheet when Jack slowly kisses his balls, then licks across the wrinkled skin, then slowly sucks first one, then the other into his mouth. 

 

Jack’s tongue against the underside of Owen’s cock coincidences with Ianto’s lips wrapping hot and wet around Owen’s left nipple, and Owen’s clearly going out of his mind, because Ianto’s suddenly shifted, _is_ shifting, inching his body down toward the foot of the bed and licking, nipping and kissing every part of Owen’s front he comes across. 

 

Owen sucks his belly in, gasping, when Ianto blows a raspberry just below his navel, then goes cross-eyed when Jack’s answering chuckle sends vibrations all the way up and down Owen’s cock. 

 

“Fuck,” Owen gasps, muscles clenching. With Ianto still inching lower under him, he buries his face into the sheets. His body isn’t his anymore. It’s Ianto’s and Jack’s, and they’re moving him, directing him, plugging into very receptive nerve endings and making him dance like a puppet on a string, and that thought jars for a bit, just for two or three seconds, because Owen dances to no one’s tune but his own - 

 

Ianto’s mouth closes over the tip of Owen’s cock, suckling teasingly, just as Jack licks his way back up and sinks his tongue into Owen’s arse as far as he can go. 

 

Good thing Jack’s hands are still on Owen, holding him in place, because the result of that bit of teamwork is a wild jerk of hips that would otherwise have choked Ianto to death on Owen’s cock. Instead, Owen’s trapped: Ianto’s hands against his hips from below, Jack’s hands against his arse from above, and between them, two mouths that are slowly but surely driving him _insane_. He’s reduced to moaning and fisting the sheets while Ianto works him into his throat. There are hot, wet suction and wicked swirls of tongue against the head of his cock; there’s a tongue slowly working his arse open. 

 

“Please,” Owen gasps into the sheets, and he has no idea what he’s asking for but he needs it _now_. A moment later, he’s ready to demand the opposite, immediately missing the attention when Jack and Ianto pull away slowly. “Wait -”

 

“Make up your mind, Owen,” Jack teases, chuckling. He’s rubbing circles on Owen’s lower back while Ianto strokes Owen’s belly, gentling more than arousing. 

 

Owen’s still breathless. His knees feel like jelly. Fuck that, his entire body feels like jelly, making any protest as he’s tipped over onto his side a moot undertaking. “Screw you, Jack.”

 

“Would you like to?”

 

Owen gets his first good look at Jack ever since this whole thing started, and it’s nice to see that he isn’t the only one governed by lust. Jack’s hair is messed up, pupils wide and lips shiny with spit. It’s a good look on Jack – but then, Jack would look good dressed in drag and doing the hula, having just that bit of extra something that makes him what he is. 

 

Owen considers the question, aware of Ianto’s gaze lingering on him, on them both. “Yeah.” He thinks about it some more. “Hell, _yeah_. But first…”

 

He reaches for Ianto, using him as a crutch to get back to his knees, and wraps his arms around the younger man, tasting himself on Ianto’s lips, on his tongue, when he draws him in for a long, sated kiss. It’s a lazy kiss, more for reconnection’s sake than actual arousal, but it’s just what Owen needs, because fuck, fucking Jack Harkness? Yeah, like that’s something Owen ever imagined to happen. 

 

Ianto’s hands rest on Owen’s waist, pulling him in. He slides his tongue along Owen’s lower lip, eyes half-lidded as he pulls back long enough to smirk at him and whisper, “’m gonna enjoy watching this.”

 

“Yeah?” Owen runs his hands down Ianto’s back, onto his arse. One slips around to worm in between their bodies, wrapping around Ianto’s hard, leaking cock for a lazy twist and stroke. “You want to see me fuck Jack?”

 

“Yep.” Ianto kisses the tip of Owen’s nose, thrusting slowly into Owen’s fist. 

 

“If you ladies are quite finished,” Jack interrupts, mirth in his tone of voice, “I’d be happy to _get_ fucked. I mean, whenever it’s convenient for you.”

 

“Aw, c’mon Jack you oh _holy_ shit…” Owen’s _second_ snappy retort of the night dies a grizzly death in the smoldering wake of the image that burns itself into his retinas when he glances at Jack. Fuck, if that isn’t one of the most erotic things he’s ever seen… “Ianto?”

 

“Yeah?” 

 

Owen can’t tear his eyes away from the sight. Jack’s reclining on one elbow, legs bent at the knees and shamelessly splayed apart, his body almost entirely hairless except for where it nicely accentuates his flushed, erect cock. He’s reached his free hand down between his legs, his balls resting heavy and tight against his wrist as he strokes lube-slick fingers in and out of his body, exposing himself completely to their sight and quite obviously enjoying himself. “…was he always like this?”

 

“No.” Ianto laughs breathlessly, then grunts, pushing his cock into Owen’s fist a few more times before pulling away. He makes himself comfortable at the head of the bed, from where, Owen guesses, he’ll have a good view of the proceedings. “He was usually much worse.”

 

“ _Is_ ,” Jack corrects him, angling one foot out to hook around Owen’s waist and pull him closer. “I’m being _nice_ here. Nice and patient.” 

 

Owen’s hand skids over the tube of lubrication lying amid the bunched-up sheets as he climbs between Jack’s legs, scooting close so Jack’s arse is cradled in the delta of Owen’s lap. He squeezes lube out onto his palm, coating two fingers and fisting his cock quickly, one, two strokes, just enough to get himself nice and slick. Jack’s _still_ fucking himself on his fingers, but he acquiesces willingly enough when Owen grabs him by the wrist and holds him still. 

 

Somehow, Jack’s eyes have become even darker over the last few minutes. He’s staring Owen directly in the face, withholding nothing of himself, lower lip caught between his teeth when Owen, unable to look away from that captivating predator’s gaze, locates Jack’s still-buried fingers and slides his own along and between them, into tight, scalding heat.

 

“Oh, yeah…” Jack drops his head back with a low groan, sounding satisfied and eager for more. “Fuck, that’s good.”

 

Ianto shifts at the head of the bed, making Owen glance up briefly to see him gently grip Jack’s head, coaxing him into a kiss, but Owen’s attention is almost solely focused on the way Jack’s arse opens and clenches around their fingers. He strokes into him a couple of times, smiling when Jack’s hitching gasps gain in volume. Jack’s loose already – Owen could probably make a joke about that – and ready, and he finally lifts out of the kiss and fixes Owen with a heated glare. 

 

“I get it, I get it,” Owen murmurs, pulling their fingers free. He’s briefly distracted by Ianto’s hand roaming across the muscled plane of Jack’s chest, flicking at dark, stiff nipples, the touch intimate and easy. Swallowing dryly, Owen shifts forward, nudging the head of his cock against Jack’s arse and – yeah, yes, hot, tight, _slick_ and so _good_ it’s robbing him of breath. He slides in easily, just the barest bit of pressure, all the way until he’s flush against Jack’s arse and Jack’s muscles are clenching around him, drawing him in. 

 

They groan together, Jack and he. Jack’s legs wrap around Owen’s waist, trapping him; Ianto’s cradling Jack’s shoulders in his arms, mouth pressed against Jack’s ear, whispering something that makes Jack’s eyes roll back into his head and groan low in his throat. When he looks back up, there’s something dark and desperate at the back of his gaze. “Move.”

 

Owen moves, leaning forward to catch himself on his hands on either side of Jack’s body, starting a slow, steady rhythm. It’s good – so good, curling his toes with pleasure, tensing the muscles in his belly. He closes his eyes, concentrating on the slow burn of pleasure as it works its way through his body, centering slowly in his loins. It melts him from the inside, and Jack’s body is scorching hot where they touch, hottest where they’re joined so intimately. 

 

He jerks, surprised, when Ianto’s voice is suddenly right next to his ear, whispering, “Fuck him harder. He wants it.”

 

Owen opens his eyes. Jack’s glorious, one hand wrapped around his cock and stroking slowly, sweat beginning to glisten in all the right places. As Owen looks, Jack grins at him, flash of bright teeth in the gloom. 

 

“Yeah?” Owen asks, shifting the angle of entry a bit, thrusting harder.

 

“Oh yeah.” Ianto wraps his arms around Owen, sucking on the side of his neck. His hands dip low, lower, stroking over Owen’s belly, down to where Owen’s cock is sliding wetly, slickly into Jack’s body, gripping and _squeezing_ light just once, but just at the right time. 

 

“Fuck,” Owen moans, letting his head fall back to rest against Ianto’s shoulder. He can track the progression of Ianto’s hands back up his body, leaving fire in their wake. Sweat is breaking out on his skin. He jerks when Ianto’s fingers catch and twist his nipples, rubbing circles around and over the sensitive peaks of flesh. “C’mon…”

 

He’s suddenly pushed forward, Ianto’s weight against his back, pressing him against, into Jack. Jack’s hands slide around his shoulders, pulling him even closer, and before he knows what’s really happening, Jack’s kissing him, sloppy and wet. Distracting, and _oh_ , he knows why, and there’s a split second when Owen wants to protest, rearing out of the kiss. 

 

Jack’s hands rub over his shoulders, calming and soothing. Ianto’s hands are less soothing, spreading him open, stroking lube into him. There’s just one moment when Ianto presses against Owen, chest to back, lips resting against the curve of Owen’s shoulder. Asking permission, it occurs to him. 

 

“Yeah,” he whispers, breathless and lightheaded, “yeah, yeah. C’mon.”

 

…and it’s almost too much, sensation from both sides. Pressure, inside and outside, and fuck, _fuck_ , Jack’s laughing breathlessly under him, tugging Owen back into the kiss while Ianto slowly fucks Owen’s arse open, relentless and loving. 

 

It’s not perfect right off the start. Of course it isn’t; it’d be too easy. A few false beginnings, a few unpleasant bumps, until Owen grunts an instruction and Ianto shoves at Jack’s left knee. Owen ends up thrusting into Jack and fucking himself back onto Ianto’s cock, going out of his mind with the pleasure. They manage to keep everything going smoothly until it all comes together for Owen, throwing him headlong into an orgasm that drives the last breath from his lungs and leaves him, gasping and shuddering and reeling from the pleasure, a sweaty, twitching heap sandwiched between Ianto and Jack. 

 

He manages to shift a bit while Ianto’s still thrusting into him, wraps his hand around Jack’s around Jack’s cock. Each time Ianto’s cock drives into him, it’s like a small supernova’s exploding behind Owen’s eyes, heat raking along sensitized nerves. He ends up moaning into Jack’s sweaty skin, randomly kissing and licking every bit he can reach, until Jack suddenly _clenches_ around Owen’s softening cock.

 

“Fuck!” Owen bellows, jerking. Ianto thrusts hard into him, groaning directly into his ear, shoving Owen forward with a few last, hard thrusts that fall directly onto the fine line between pleasure and pain. 

 

He ends up truly sandwiched between Jack and Ianto, breathing so hard he’s seeing stars. Every time one of them moves, Owen feels as though something is stroking against the inside of his skin, his arse, fuck, his cock still resting in Jack’s heat. 

 

Eventually, Ianto is the first to move. He pulls away slowly, pressing a kiss to the back of Owen’s neck, laughing at something while he simply falls onto his side and stretches out on his back, arms and legs akimbo. “That was…”

 

“Yeah,” Owen manages, attempting to move as well, but he needs Jack’s help and ends up tumbling against Ianto’s side, almost pulling away again because it’s warm, _too_ warm, the air inside the bedroom thick with musk and charged, as if with electricity. But Ianto, making a content, happy sound, pulls him in, dragging and pulling at Owen until they’re kissing. 

 

Jack rolls up against Owen’s back, lightly swatting his arse. “Mhh. Nice.”

 

Owen breaks the kiss long enough to mutter, “Just nice?”

 

Jack laughs, nuzzling into Owen’s hair, sliding an arm around him and Ianto both. “Could use some practice.” He ignores Owen’s groan and huff of laughter, throwing a leg over both of them as well, in pure Jack Harkness style: possessive and protective at the same time. “But I figure we have lots of time for practice.” 

 

Owen closes his eyes, thinking that, yeah, he’s convinced. He lets Ianto drag him back into a lush kiss, stretching into Jack’s roaming hand, Jack’s lips over his neck and shoulders. 

 

And all of this because of one tiny, shiny disks. 

 

END


End file.
